


And He Does

by amidtheflowers



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 15:08:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6525193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amidtheflowers/pseuds/amidtheflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing with Frank Castle is simple, and Karen relishes this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And He Does

**Author's Note:**

> As promised, the core scenes in this oneshot come from Mechanical Orange, Brightki, and Simply-Licentious from my tumblr prompt. Thank you for your suggestions! Somehow I made it all work.
> 
> I live in a world where “you’re dead to me” never happened and it’s a better place. I highly advise joining.

The first time is because of the diner.

She wants to hate it. She wants to gag at the blood, at the tremor in his body as he stares at the remains of the man who’d tried to kill him—kill her.

She should be sick. She should look away and forget this, get away from this. He nearly says it too—she can see it in his eyes. The way he tightens his jaw and glances away. But she beats him to it.

Karen steps out of the kitchen and swerves around the counter. Frank looks at her sharply, scowling when her hand hovers over his arm before closing her fingers around his jacket. “Let’s go.”

He narrows his eyes. “You should leave.”

Karen’s fingers grip him tighter, peering into his eyes until he’s forced to stare back. Indifferent to the pool of blood they stand in. “Let’s _go._ ”

He exhales hard through his nose as if annoyed, staring at her for only a second longer before turning away with a nod. Unconsciously he holds onto her arm as she steps over the body, steadying her, and they exit the diner together.

“The hotel,” Karen says swiftly as they sit in the car. “Thanks to you, Blacksmith’s got two casualties to deal with. We’re off the trail for now.” Karen glances down at his clothes. “And you look like shit.”

Frank snorts humorlessly. “You shoulda seen me in my goddamn jail cell.” But he shifts the gear into drive, and turns back to her hotel.

They move quietly, stealthily. Frank leads, checking corners and staring through shadows that Karen wouldn’t care to notice. He nods at her when they reach the door and Karen fishes out the keys, gritting her teeth when her hands shake and the key keeps missing the hole.

She expects Frank to take them from her, to steady her hand. He doesn’t.

“Hey.”

Karen pauses, glancing up to see him watching her. His voice is rough but quiet. His eyes no longer carry the deadened gaze at the diner when he’d been staring at the bodies.

He doesn’t offer comfort, he doesn’t actually _say_ anything else. But his eyes—his goddamn eyes speak levels beyond speech, carrying a million words in a single look. And she gets it—Christ help her, but she does.

“Yeah,” Karen bits her lip and nods, focusing back on the keys, “yeah, I’m good.”

And without a second’s hesitation, she turns the key and opens the door.

The hotel room is cramped and musty and even sparser than her studio, and with Frank standing beside her it feels as if they crowd the room. A bed is shoved in the corner of the room next to a small window, a little kitchenette by the door and a bathroom across from the bed.

They seem to realize the proximity and the quiet and their company in that moment, for they shift a bit and suddenly it’s the diner again—tension-y, uncertain. Alert.

“There a first aid kit here?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Karen says dryly. “I was only here for thirty seconds.”

Frank grunts and stalks to the bathroom, kicking the door so that it’s closed halfway. Karen shrugs out of her coat and kicks off her heels before hunting for some kind of medical kit, and—there. Karen smiles a little bit when she finds a little box hidden under the kitchen sink.

She stalks to the bathroom and knocks, pushing the door open. “Here,” she says, and then promptly goes still.

A myriad of colors dance down Frank’s back, ghosts of scars as if someone had scrawled hastily between his shoulders. He turns his head and stares blankly. Vaguely she realizes the water in the shower is running.

Karen holds out the box, and it’s Frank who averts his eyes. “Thank you, ma’am,” he says mutedly, and takes the box from her.

The door closes and soon enough steam is billowing from the underneath the bathroom door. Karen purses her lips and sits down on the couch, pressing her fingers to her lips. She sits until the shower turns off, until the door reopens and Frank is dressed in the same clothes that are now less red and slightly wetter.

“You were right,” says Karen.

Frank sits next to her, rubbing his hand over the back of his head. “About what?”

“Me and Matt. To hold on,” Karen nods, glancing at him with a brief smile. “I don’t think it’s love. It’s not there yet. But it’s close.” She looks Frank squarely in the eye and says, “Now, I’m going to kiss you.”

Frank does a little movement, not quite a double-take but definitely a jerk of surprise. “What did you say?”

“You know what I said.”

Frank looks at her for a second before shaking his head vigorously and launching up. “Shit,” he says wryly, “shit, is this it then? You get off on it, Page?”

“Cut the shit,” Karen glares and stands up with him. “This—this isn’t more than what it is. I almost died twice in the last twenty-four hours and you saved me both times. I’m— _shaking_ from the adrenaline and I let you drive me back to my hotel after watching you bash the brains out of a guy. It’s been a hard fucking day, Frank. I’m not asking for much.” Quietly, she adds, “Don’t think I haven’t been noticing things too, Frank. I’m not stupid.”

Frank curses. For a second she thinks he’s going to say something scathing at her, push her away like he always does. But he goes still, staring at the window before turning his gaze to her.

Karen inhales deeply, staring back. That’s the thing with Frank—he stares. He doesn’t care how uncomfortable it makes people, he _watches_ and sees beyond the façade, can see their thoughts and history in just one calculated glance. And he does this to Karen, peering at her as if staring through her, reading the secrets tucked carefully away. But she likes that he does it, likes that he’s willing to look in.

She takes two steps forward, standing just a few centimeters from him. He watches her as she hesitates, licking her lips. She should’ve kept her heels on—he’s so much taller than her and she’s sure it’ll be a fun trip for her calves by the end of this. But as she leans up and presses her hands to his shoulders, his hands are suddenly on her waist and pulls her roughly against him, causing her to exhale in surprise as their lips crash.

Nothing with Frank Castle is simple, and Karen relishes this. She needs to breathe and she tears her lips away, but he only gives her a second before dragging her lips back to his, nipping and pulling and licking; he’s consuming her and she takes it in and more, pushes back, leaves him as breathless as he robs her of hers. With each tug at her waist, each dip of their tongues and each pull at her hair, she can hear his silent words: _You wanted this ma’am, you better take all of it._

And she does.

**-:-**

The second is the rooftop.

She’s staring at the white skull painted on his shirt, the heavy duty machinery in his right hand and the long coat all building onto the persona he’s embraced. The Punisher was alive, even if Frank Castle didn’t want to be.

She walks to him and then speeds up until he’s just a few paces away, but he takes a step back.

“Don’t.”

Karen spits out, “Why. Not.”

Frank just shakes his head. “You don’t know what you’re starting, ma’am.”

“Oh no,” Karen shakes her head deliberately. “This is finishing.”

“Shit, Page,” Frank swings the gun so it’s hanging off his shoulder and he steps closer until he’s towering over her. “I’m not a fucking bandage. This ain’t _shit_. The man you knew is dead. Forgot?”

“Cut the shit,” Karen says again, staring straight into his eyes. “You know what this is. I’m not looking for—for that. And neither are you.”

He doesn’t say anything. Then, “Still on for Murdock?”

Karen presses her lips in a line, and she knows Frank understands. “Maybe someone else other than him. Definitely _not_ you.”

It seems that’s all he needed to hear, for he shakes his head and welcomes her arms when she throws them around his shoulders, kissing him soundly.

**-:-**

The third is a blur and so is the fourth, but the _fifth_. Karen is grateful to all celestial and godly beings for the fifth.

It was quite terrible, actually. Karen was hunting a lead and Frank was hunting the lead’s enemy, neither knowing they were following same thing. It ended at an abandoned warehouse at twilight with a no-show lead and a predictably trigger-happy wingman that shot up far too much heroin to be holding a gun.

After Frank’s constant death glares Karen starts carrying her gun, and boy is she glad—she managed a hit in the leg before the man could get the safety off his, and before the man could even stagger to the ground Frank had his hands on the man’s head and twisted it with a swift _crack_.

“A goddamn magnet,” Frank grunts, stepping over the dead man as he walks towards her. Rivulets of rain streak down his eyes and drip from his hair, and it soaks Karen as well. “A little minus sign tattooed on your ass, I bet.”

“Don’t pretend like you know anything about my ass, Mr. Castle,” Karen replies, somewhat breathlessly. The adrenaline is still coursing through her and Frank glances at her hand.

“You listened,” he notes, his voice oddly unreadable.

“I did.”

Karen’s house is a five minute drive back but it feels like eternity in that singular night—he is unnaturally still in the car. He doesn’t make a sound, his back straight and his eyes trained on the road almost methodically. It starts in the pit of her stomach, nerves fluttering with a thrill of excitement she never felt before with him. This is _different_. It will be so, so different.

The moment the door to her apartment closes his hands are on her—sliding off her jacket, fingers diving into her hair. He backs her into the wall adjacent to the kitchen and anchors her with his hips, his lips burning against hers. Each swipe of his tongue sends a thrill down her spine and curls her toes, each shift of his hip and brush of his abdomen against hers a torturous reminder of what has not been.

Karen pushes him back. He stares passively and she wonders if he actually thinks she’s ending this. She assuages the thought immediately. “Take your shirt off. And sit there.” He glances at the cushioned chair by the bed, and turns back to her.

Slowly, he slides off the shirt and folds it neatly over the couch, leaving him in faded blue jeans and a frown. Karen follows him as he makes for the chair and sits on his lap deliberately, trailing her fingers from his throat to his jaw where his ear meets, then runs her nails against his scalp. His hair is grown out a bit, not the usual military buzz cut he favors. He must’ve been busy this week.

His self-control is disciplined beyond her ability, something that made their arrangement all the more entertaining. He doesn’t touch her until she kisses him, and kisses him _hard_. Her skirt is damp from the rain and it sticks to the top of her thighs as Frank’s hand runs from her hips to the soft skin of her legs. His fingers draw circles in the flesh there before venturing up slowly until they trace the band of her underwear. Her hips shift on their own, the friction sparking between them that his fingers pause and his hips answer with a soft roll of their own.

She stares down at him for a moment, her hand on his cheek. “You like me with a gun, don’t you?” she says faintly, just above a whisper. “You like it.”

Something darkens in his eyes, and suddenly he’s standing up and drops her to the bed, watching her bounce for a second before going for her mouth.

The softness is gone, replaced with something far more determined. He’s distracting her, with his kisses, his little touches, coaxing breathless sounds from her throat—she feels the fabric slide down her legs and Karen’s eyes snap open, watching in surprise as Frank levels a steady gaze and grips the back of her thighs firmly, and dips his head down.

The first, second, third touch sends a tremor through her, but his eyes flicker up to hers every few seconds and it makes her face hot—no one has ever been this intent, not like him. But this was Frank, and Frank does not start a job unless he intends to finish it, with complete and utter thoroughness. It’s what makes her grasp at the sheets in desperation, what elicits the breathless moans when his hands push her legs wider and plunges his tongue into her, unyielding until her hips are shaking and she finds purchase in his hair.

“Frank,” she whispers and it sounds like a plea to her ears, and Frank’s eyes return to hers as his tongue drags up and circles around her clit, sending shockwaves through her body.

But just as quickly he’s gone, leaving her unfinished—his jeans are discarded and he’s hovering over her, pulling away the remains of her clothes.

“Do I like it?” he says, and it takes Karen a moment to remember what he’s referring to.

“The gun,” she breathes.

“Yeah, Karen, the gun,” his hand slides up her leg and she shifts in anticipation. “The gun you pointed at me. That you used to shoot that asshole’s leg.” She feels the warmth of his tip and she shivers as he says, “Do I like it? I fucking _love it_.”

He fills her easily, moving in tandem with her until she grips his waist and pushes him further, then twists her body a bit and nudges him. He flips her over and his hands are in her hair again—he never can get enough of the soft, golden strands and the way it looks in his fist—and her hips meet with every snap of his, sending spirals of pleasure through her body until she’s throbbing. His hips shift and she feels his chest pressing against her back, and he hits a spot deep inside her that makes her tremble.

“You like that?” he says in her ear. Karen nods, and she feels his breath on her skin—she should be more surprised that he’s a talker but honestly, at this point, everything about Frank Castle was a goddamn surprise in and of itself.

“Yeah,” she gasps, turning her head so she can look at him. “Just like that. More.”

And he does.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Karen’s back arches and gasps again. “Fuck, _shit._ ”

They move again and her hips roll over his, her hands flat against his chest and watching his head move against her pillow—the sight makes her that much more breathless, to have Frank underneath her, inside her, it’s more than she ever conceived—and more than he ever thought he would do again; not this. But it would always have been this.

He likes when she talks and seeing him get off on it makes her speak even more, going on until he snaps—he grabs her waist and thrusts into her harder while she licks her finger and watches him watch her bring her finger down and play with her nub. His lips tug upward and his fingers move to her breasts, rubbing and twisting until her pace stutters, overwhelmed.

He comes after her, boneless and still inside her when she collapses on his chest. She can still hear the rain pattering against the window as they catch their breath.

“Red’s loss,” Frank breaks the silence, staring at the darkened ceiling above them. “Not him.”

“ _Definitely_ not him,” Karen agrees, lifting her head from his shoulder to look at Frank. He stares at her and Karen sighs. 

Frank smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> I stayed up til 3am writing this dark and spicy piece instead of my research paper so if you have any humanity you’ll tell me how spicy it was for you.
> 
> Thank you for reading! You can find me on tumblr: amidtheflowers.tumblr.com


End file.
